


Rapture on the Lonely Shore

by Katie_Dub



Category: Fleabag (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Pandemics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-29
Updated: 2020-03-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:41:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23383945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Katie_Dub/pseuds/Katie_Dub
Summary: Social distancing has come into play and suddenly Fleabag finds herself unable to be close to her best friend right when she needs him the most, but will it bring them closer than ever?
Relationships: Fleabag/Priest (Fleabag)
Comments: 19
Kudos: 97





	Rapture on the Lonely Shore

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry guys, another coronavirus fic, I promise they won't all be like this. If you need to not read this to stay mentally healthy, I get it. But I hope I deliver on some hot, funny Fleabag-esque vibes to the current situation.
> 
> A fantastic anon sent me this prompt: "My prompt is- romance/smut via social distancing. What if (like your other great one) the priest and fleabag had never got it on; but instead of self isolating together they have been meeting up as friends...then on 2m a part walks, feelings get shared?"  
> THANK YOU!

"Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, FUCK!" I scream into the silent void of my living room for no other reason than there's no one here with me and I fucking well can.

I am handling this coronavirus shit like a fucking pro.

Tonight Bojo told everyone to stay away from pubs, restaurants and cafes, whatever the fuck that means. Hillarys is likely fucked. I think of Joe, my regular, wondering how he'll cope without Chatty Wednesdays and the food I provide, which could quite easily send me spiralling off into a major fucking crisis, if I weren't already at least 90% of the way there. 

Like I said, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, FUCK! 

The worst part of it is that my best friend, my rock, my Priest is busy doing the Lord's work and visiting the housebound so I can't fucking see him in case he gives me the plague or vice versa. Apparently his God has a really twisted sense of humour. 

My phone rings, mercifully dragging me from my thoughts. 

"What are you doing right now?" 

"Well, _hello, Father,"_ I say with a grin.

"Oh fuck off," he chides with a laugh, "can you go to your door?"

"Is that some kind of code?" 

"Just open your fucking door."

Intrigued, I cross over to the door and throw it open. My Priest stands two metres away from it, grinning at the sight of me.

"Sorry Father, I've got to go, I've had a hot delivery." I hang up, watching his beautiful neck as he throws his head back and laughs. I love making him laugh.

The only thing worse than being mildly obsessed with your best friend who you can never be with because he's a priest, is being mildly obsessed with your best friend who you can never be with because he's a priest when you aren't even allowed to touch him. In a purely platonic way, you understand, he gives the best hugs.

Oh fuck off. 

"What a line!" he says, calming down and wiping tears from his eyes.

"There's more where that came from."

"Save me." He holds up his hands in a gesture of defeat, I ignore it. I've got to get my kicks somehow.

"Have you got coronavirus? Because you definitely look hot."

"Oh God help me, that was bad."

There's a loud bang from in my house that startles me. I whip around to try and see what has happened, I hate it when He does that. 

I hate that my Priest has me thinking that there is a God, and that he is messing with me. 

I look back to see him smirking at me, raising his eyebrows as though defying me to comment on what just happened.

“Not that I’m not pleased to see you, but what are you doing here?”

“Do you want to go for a walk? I’d love to go for a walk with you.”

“Doesn’t that go against the rules?” I say, already reaching for my coat..

“We can maintain our distance, just like spies.” He has a twinkle in his eyes, delighted by his own cleverness.

I pull on my trench coat. “You wanted to be James Bond as a kid, didn’t you?” I bet he was a cute kid.

“That tosser? Fuck no, although I wouldn’t have complained if Miss Moneypenny had wanted to check out my concealed weapon.”

“Father!” I gasp in mock horror even as I try to hide the snort that escapes me.

"I wasn't always a priest," he says lightly, "you know that." He turns and walks back through my gate and onto the street. He turns back to me, smiling and waiting for me to join him.

"Oh fuck, I should wash my hands, shouldn't I?" 

Look, I run a cafe, I understand basic hygiene, despite what Claire might think. But since all this started the hand washing has been intense.

He nods. "Safety first. It's OK, I'll wait."

And wait he does as I diligently wash my hands for a full twenty seconds, all the while thinking about my Priest waiting patiently out there for me. Or maybe not patiently? Maybe bursting with eagerness for me to get back to him? 

Oh who the fuck am I kidding? That man has the patience of a saint.

I return to my doorstep, and pause a moment to enjoy the sight of him, shirt rolled up to his sleeves and hands clasped behind his back as he stares down the eerily quiet street. It’s magic hour and the glow of the sinking sun lights him up beautifully. He turns before I reach him, a beaming smile on his face. He tilts his head thoughtfully, apparently searching hard for signs of.. I don't know, distress maybe?

He nods to himself, a slight smile in his eyes and he turns to head out of the gate, stepping back and letting me walk ahead of him. What a gentleman. 

"Checking out my arse, Father?" I toss back to him over my shoulder.

He snorts. "I'm more of a tits man myself."

Damn. 

There go my hopes that he's secretly burning a torch for me, mine are barely there, any smaller and you'd need a microscope to find them. I do better with arse men. 

But you knew that already.

"Aren't you a happily celibate man?" 

"I'm a priest, I'm not blind. I'm merely appreciating the glory of God's creations."

"So you believe in 'look, don't touch'?" 

"I believe that you're trying to get me in trouble. And you'll get a crick in your neck if you keep looking back at me like that."

"Not really much of a walk together if I can't look at you, talk to you, or stand anywhere near you."

"These things are sent to try us," he states calmly, completely at ease with the idea that his God has inflicted an Old Testament style plague upon the world. Like humanity as a whole is the villain of the latest gripping installment of His story.

The thought doesn't sit well with me. Admittedly, I probably deserve a little damnation, but the entire human race? Or at least our most vulnerable members? I thought the meak were supposed to inherit the earth? 

I stop and turn to face him fully, enjoying the way he starts as though he's bumped into me, even though he's a full two metres away. It’s still not quite dark but the street lights have yet to kick in, so it's a little hard to make out his expression. I glare at him with his arrogant nonchalance. Next he'll be pulling some kind of awful but horribly truthful platitude out of his arse like "It'll pass."

True it may be, but it's hardly the fucking point.

We continue on until I spot a bench in front of me and desperate to actually talk to my friend, sit down at one end. He diligently sits at the other, hands in his lap, as he maintains the appropriate social distance. Seriously, fuck coronavirus.

"How are you?" he asks, looking at me with what I can only assume is deep concern.

"Well my livelihood and best friend's legacy -" there's a flash in his eyes that I almost want to call jealousy "- has been totally fucked by our prime minister, how are you?"

His hand twitches, an awkward jerk that gives me the sense that he'd wanted to reach out to me. He's flexing his fingers, grasping and releasing his knee, suggesting that he's buzzing with energy, full to the brim of untapped potential and excitement that belies his otherwise calm outward demeanour.

"I'm sorry, I know how much Hillary's means to you." 

That may be one of my favourite things about my Priest, his willingness to just sit with sadness. Too many people rush you to feeling better, to reassuring you that things aren't actually as bad as you think. Not my Priest. He lets you feel what you feel. And somehow he just knows what people need, whether it's silence or speaking, space or physical comfort.

Not that he can give me that right now.

"It's just a café." I don't know why I'm so quick to deflect, not with him. He knows me too well to buy that.

"You don't have to do that,” his voice just oozes softness, treading carefully as he speaks like he’s dealing with a wild cat. His fingers are drumming on his knee again. “It’s ok to hate how fucked up this is.”

We sit for a minute, him patiently waiting as I try to gather my confused thoughts and feelings into something coherent. “I know that you think this is all about Boo for me.”

“Do I?” he challenges, I frown at him from the corner of my eye.

“Don’t you?”

He shrugs. I once again fumble for words. “Do I want Boo’s cafe to close? Of course not. Do I want what we built and I made into a success to be fucked? Of course not. But that’s not what makes me want to scream. It’s the people who need Chatty Wednesdays, who need someone to talk to, even if they’re just a stranger who bought a cup of tea in the same bloody cafe as them. It’s Joe who’s in every day and now I might never see again because this pestilence could take him. It’s everyone who’s popped in for a sandwich and has nearly cried with relief that I actually have bread because some dipshits panicked and bought it all. It’s just a cafe, but it - it matters.”

He huffs and when I look to him there are tears in his eyes. “Have I ever told you how fucking wonderful you are?”

“Easy there, Father.”

“No, really, you’re fucking brilliant.” He shakes his head. “I hate that I can’t hold you right now. I want to, so much. I want to just wrap my arms around you and bury my face in your neck and breathe you in. Maybe some of your brilliance would rub off on me.”

God I can imagine one of those hugs. They always leave me somewhere between cherished and horny. The feeling of his breath on my neck just feels so delicious, sending desire rippling right through me.

I should probably tell him, but it feels so fucking good that I don’t want him to stop it. And he probably knows the effect it has on me anyway. I kind of think he’s counting on it.

“Wanting to rub off on me, Father? What will the bishop say?”

Sometimes it’s just easier to go for the innuendo than handle all the feelings brimming below the surface.

He laughs. “You wish.” 

I watch as he reaches out for me, jerks his hand back before reaching it towards me again. 

“I want to hold your hand too,” I finally say, nodding down to his hand and reaching towards him with my own. Not trying to touch him, just to be that bit closer to him.

A silence falls between us. It’s comfortable and easy, although my thoughts are anything but. At last I notice that the sun has set and the street lights are on. Reluctantly I realise that I should go back home now.

My Priest feels it too.

“We should probably-” “I better get -”

We laugh as one and without another word rise to leave.

“Don’t catch the fucking plague,” I say.

“Same to you. Stay well.” And we both go our separate ways.

***

It’s been a day. I’ve been trying my best to keep the cafe going but with half of London seemingly already in self isolation and the other half frightened of people, it feels a little too close to the painful times after Boo died.

I’ve been delivering food to my elderly regulars, trying to do my bit to keep them safe. Taking sandwiches to Joe and chatting with him through the door to make sure he gets his daily interaction along with his sustenance. 

It took Joe a long time to answer the door today. It filled my heart with absolute dread, I was on the verge of calling 999 when he finally came to the door, brimming with apologies. I was so relieved to see him that I nearly hugged him in relief.

And to think once upon a time he used to drive me crazy at times with his eager need to chat.

I really need to hold my Priest. I know I can’t. I just need to.

I text him from his bench in his garden asking him to meet me.

“Is everything alright?” he says when he appears, dishevelled and breathless, rushing towards me before remembering and standing back.

“No it’s not, I fucking hate all this,” I burst out, my eyes welling up. “I’m scared and I’m tired and my hands are fucking bleeding from how often I wash them now -” his eyes widen and dart down to my hands, his mouth twisting in distress “- and I just need a fucking hug from my best friend.”

A tear slides down my cheek, I don’t wipe it away, I can’t bear to wash my hands again.

He sits on the other end of the bench.

“I’m holding you right now,” he says. I side eye him. “Don’t give me that look. I’m holding you, don’t you feel how warm my arms are?”

I smile, it’s a nice fantasy, he does have such beautiful arms.

“You’re tucking your head into my neck and your breath tickles, but I don’t say anything, because it feels good to be close to you.”

I love snuggling into that spot. 

“One of my hands is on the back of your head so I can run my fingers through your hair. You know that way you like? You always say it soothes you when I do it, your hair is so gorgeously curly that I have to be careful not to tug on it, easing my fingers through it and tugging gently.”

It does feel good, I close my eyes and just let myself get lost in the memories of the last time he did that.

“My other hand is splayed out across your back, rubbing firmly against you in circles where I can feel your muscles tight beneath my fingers. I feel how it relaxes you, as you melt into me, sinking deeper into my arms.”

I sigh, feeling some of the tension I’d been holding disappearing as he talks.

“When your breathing has evened out so I know that you’re deeply relaxed I gently move back and kiss your cheek, grateful that I can be here for you, whenever you need me.”

He stops talking, I take a few moments to just appreciate the deep calm he’s brought to me before opening my eyes and looking at him. He’s smiling but I can see the tension in his jaw that tells me it hurts him as much as me that he can’t do all that for real.

“Thank you,” I say quietly. What else can I say?

***

The Priest is staring at me so intently that I don't know how to feel. There's just so much feeling in his gaze, wonder and joy and this uncomfortable sense that he's trying to imprint me on his heart. It's only been half an hour since lockdown was announced and he's already losing it. 

You'd think he'd be used to loneliness by now.

He asked for a video call five minutes ago. I’m not sure he’s actually said a word since we connected yet.

"Are you alright?" 

He chuckles, eyes turning sad as he does. "No. No, I'm really not. I finally figure out what I want, just when I can't have it."

He's completely lost me. I don't know how to react, or if I even should. I feel like I'm intruding on a private confession, like he's forgotten he's talking to me instead of his God.

He starts fidgeting, dragging his hands through his hair until it looks as wild as I'm guessing he feels.

"You're too much, you know?" I start at the accusation, not sure where I come into this crisis of his. "You're so… No, it's not you, it's me."

At least it seems like he's confusing himself as much as me.

"When I think of this - this plague taking you from me -" he breaks off, choking up at the thought and grasping at his heart as though in physical pain.

"You don't have to worry about me," I downplay, "pretty sure those human viruses don't affect us robots." I force out a laugh, it's really not funny. 

"Don't say that!" he all but snarls at me, "no heartless creature could love like you."

I don't know how to feel about this. He's never seen me in love. I'm not even sure if I've ever _been_ in love, maybe once I thought I could feel something for him, but nothing ever came of it. And sure I still want him, I'm only fucking human, but I know enough now to know sex isn't love. A scoff escapes me, his eyes narrow in response.

"You don't even know, do you? What you do?" 

I'm fucking baffled.

That fury that drove him before melts away before my eyes, and he's just so… soft. The way he looks at me is so tender. It's a bit much really. 

Hillary squeaks indignantly at me from inside her cage, the best friend being mad at me is one thing, but the fucking guinea pig? Give me a fucking break!

"Look at me." I drag my eyes from the squeaking fluff ball. He lifts his hand up to the screen, I can't see what it's doing, the webcam unable to follow his movements. I kind of wish he was stroking my face the way he sometimes strokes my hair or my arms. A gentle affection that sparks something deep inside me. Not in that way, you dirty bastard.

"You are - everything -" he takes a deep breath "- I need you. I need to touch you."

"I didn't think you were that sort of priest," I tease.

"I don't want to be a priest."

"What?" 

"Well, I do, being a priest brings me peace, brings me joy, but that's all meaningless if I can't have you."

He's not one to joke at times like this, but I just can't believe that this is real.

"I think you've had a little too much of the communion wine, Father." I chuckle. "You didn't need to drink it all in your congregation's absence."

"I'm not drunk," he seethes, "I'm in love. With you. If you don't feel the same do me a fucking favour and say it, don't just laugh at me." He glares at me.

My chest is tight, so is my jaw, this is all - is all - it's unbelievable. That's it: unbelievable.

"You don't."

"Fuck you telling me what I feel, you infuriating -" 

"Bitch?" I suggest, leaping to the change in subject. "Oooh, or jezebel, that's a good one, biblical too, I know you like that." His hand goes to his face. "Don't touch your face, Father."

He drops his hand, staring at me in disbelief. "Are you fucking serious right now? I'm unburdening my fucking _soul,_ and you're scolding me for touching myself?" 

The urge to laugh at his unthinking innuendo bubbles up in me. I try my best to fight it, wanting to be serious even as we have a conversation that feels like it has to be a fucking joke. At least he seems to have realised his mistake, cringing at what just came out of his mouth. 

"I just don't want to drive you to touching yourself, I gather your God doesn't like it." He laughs, it sounds ever so slightly deranged. "I mean, personally, I'm pro touching yourself, you might even call it my favourite hobby, but if you want to keep your job, best not."

"I touch myself a lot when I think about you," he replies earnestly.

"Can't stop tearing your hair out at your ridiculous heathen's antics?" 

He shakes his head. "I love your antics. Please, hear me." There's so much sincerity in his voice, he's so earnest, that part of me finally acknowledges that he might really mean this, a tiny spark igniting in my heart. "I'm not joking or drunk or having a crisis of faith. I realised that this could be the end, and I couldn't live with myself if I didn't take a chance on this. I want you. I want to kiss you and hold you -” he’s being so romantic and I really do not know how to handle this. People aren’t romantic with me, unless they’re Harry and it’s one part romance to nine parts whining tedium. “- and suck on your tits."

That’s more like it.

"Oh my god," I gasp, feeling equal parts scandalised by his bluntness and confused by the idea of anyone being that interested in my tiny tits. I glance down, involuntarily thrusting my chest forward and shoulders back as I try to see what he apparently does. "They're not much to look at."

"You've got gorgeous tits," he says sincerely, eyes locked on them and lips parted for just a moment. He looks back up at my eyes and frowns. "You do. I see them and just want to -" he breaks off, biting his lip and twisting and rubbing his fingers in midair in a way that has me imagining those fingers on my nipples. 

Christ, I'm going to hell for sure. 

"If you don't stop all this dirty talk, you'll make me want to get my tits out and touch myself -" 

"Please do." 

"- it'll be so disappoint- what?" 

"I mean -" he fidgets, going to run a hand over his face then remembering all the covid rules last minute and nervously fiddling with his sleeve instead. "Fuck me. I dream about eating you out, you know? I wake up from dreams of fucking you to find my sheets wet."

My mouth is dry. Just how are you meant to react when you hear that your best friend fantasises about you even in his sleep? And I felt guilty for wanking off to thoughts of him. You know, occasionally, when I was feeling desperate or he had been particularly hot one day or it was a Tuesday.

My vibrator was in daily use.

"Do you have any idea how hard it is to wake up with a hard on and not touch yourself? To just pray to God to stop messing with you and let you get through the day without looking like a sex-crazed teen who took viagra for a dare?" 

I snort with laughter and he gives into the need to scrub at his face. 

"Yes, luckily for me you can't tell how wet I get when you lick your lips and I have visions of sitting on your face."

He groans, sounding genuinely pained.

"God, I wish you would.” He’s so _breathless,_ am I really meant to believe that he’s saying all this to me totally sober? “What if the world ends tomorrow and I never get to taste your cunt?"

I can’t believe this is happening, it feels much more likely that I have in fact contracted that killer disease and am lying in my flat, hallucinating through the fever.

"Lucky you believe in an afterlife."

"True, I'm sure they have 69s in heaven."

I’m not sure if they do, I mean, we’re talking about _heaven,_ is God a fan of simultaneous oral? Does God even get to _have_ oral? These are questions I never thought I’d consider, I don’t voice them out loud, of course, I’m a classy lady. "Do you really think so?" 

"I don't fucking know!" His hands are back in his hair, raking through it, I wish they were my hands. "I just know that I want to be with you for real before I leave this world. It'd be a fucking nightmare if I got to heaven and found myself incapable of fucking you like you deserve."

"Right?" I’m pretty sure that I’ve already died and gone to heaven.

"Right." He nods, gazing at me like he’s staring right into my soul. Or through my top, something like that.

"So ... what happens now?" 

"Well I love you, but I need to end this call. I'm in a very hard position right now." How does this man manage to look bashful as he’s telling me that he’s turned on by his own dirty talk?

"I love you too, for what it's worth.” I figure why not tell him? Chances are this isn’t even real. “Maybe we could help each other out? I'll show you mine if you show me yours."

"I'd rather our first time wasn't awkward video call sex, if it's all the same to you?" he says.

I’m sure I must be pouting but the man I’ve wanted for a year now, the man I’ve always known that I could never be with, has just told me he loved me, filled my head with filth and now he wants me to leave me to deal with that myself? It’s fucking rude. “I mean, one way to handle that would’ve been to hold in all the fucking sex talk.”

“I’m sorry” He does look contrite, but there’s a twinkle in his eye all the same.

“No you’re not, you love that you’ve made me wet.”

“How wet?” His voice has dropped an octave to a barely audible growl.

“Fuck off. You want me to tell you all the things you’ve done to me and all the things I’m going to do to myself then you stay on the phone for that awkward video call sex. Otherwise that’s between me and my vibrator.”

He groans in clear distress, I’ll be honest, I kind of enjoy it. The man has just got me all wound up and doesn’t even want to help me finish. Revenge is sweet. 

Both hands are rubbing at his cheeks as he breathes deeply, before pulling them away and glaring at me, like it’s _my_ fault we’re both turned on with nowhere to go. "Coronavirus has a lot to answer for." 

"Well if you're determined to leave me to take care of myself alone, I best be going. Wet dreams!"

"I love you, you filthy heathen."

"I love you too, you dirty priest, good night."

He gives me a look that somehow manages to be filled with fire and tenderness, as contradictory as my Hot Priest himself. "Good night," he says at last, sadly reaching out and ending our call.

Right, vibrator time.

Unless.

***

In the history of spectacularly stupid choices I've made, I cannot decide if dragging a suitcase to the house of my best friend who just announced his undying love for - and vivid fantasy life about - me is the best or worst thing I've ever done. I'm not sure what I'd say if the police stop me for making a nonessential trip. And God forbid they look in my suitcase at the collection of lingerie, sex toys and lube in there. 

We aren't allowed out of the house, what do you think we'll be doing?

I get to his front door and thank a God that I don't believe in for packing Pam off to her son's for quarantine, there's no way I could do this if she were here. 

I don't know if I can do this anyway. 

I should've had a drink first, though I'm glad that I didn't.

I have a momentary panic at the thought of having sex with real feelings, would that be making love? My throat is closing up and I'm finding it hard to breathe. Maybe I best go home, I might be coming down with coronavirus.

My phone rings, I pull it out and answer it before stopping to think.

"What are you doing right now?" my Priest asks. 

Shit. 

"I thought we weren't doing that?" I deflect, "but I can get out my vibrator if I need it?" 

"Are you outside my house?" 

I look up, he's staring at me out of the window, disbelief and joy spread across his handsome face. I nod, and he nods back.

"Come to your door," I say then hang up. 

My heart is pounding, I'm highly aware that this is no ordinary hook up, this is the start of something… Something extraordinary. I take a deep breath, trying to draw in the courage to make this leap into the unknown, but it does little to calm my jitters. This is my Priest, my world, if I fuck this up - _he'll be there to catch me._

I don't know how I know this, just that I do. Would you look at that? He's made me a believer.

I hear the jingle of keys, the thunk of the lock twisting, the creak of the handle.

I'm ready for this, for him, _for love._

Now fuck off, this is private.

**Author's Note:**

> Stay home, stay safe, and if I can write you some Fleabag fic to alleviate the boredom of lockdown even a tiny bit, send me a message [@katie-dub](https://katie-dub.tumblr.com/)
> 
> title taken from this lovely poem: 
> 
> “There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,  
> There is a rapture on the lonely shore,  
> There is society, where none intrudes,  
> By the deep sea, and music in its roar:  
> I love not man the less, but Nature more”  
> ― Lord Byron


End file.
